


Lilo and Myrtle-verse

by beetle



Category: Lilo & Stitch (2002)
Genre: F/F, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 09:13:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mild angst, of the teeny-bopper variety.  Inspired by Radiohead's "There There".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waiting to Happen

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I'm not the Mouse.  
> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: SET TEN-ISH YEARS IN THE FUTURE! If you've ever seen the movie or a commercial for it--you're all set. Spoilers for the movie I guess, though not the series. Pre-slash.

"Howsit, Myrtle?"  
  
  
  
"Nyagh!" Startled out of a not so light doze--falling asleep on one's front porch swing? Not a smart thing, even in a town as small as this--Myrtle Edmonds nearly falls out of the swing, which creaks reprovingly. But there's a warm, steadying hand placed on her shoulder.  
  
  
  
"Easy," a familiar voice says, rich with repressed laughter. It makes Myrtle blink away the fog in her brain and her eyes to glare at--  
  
  
  
" _You_!" Myrtle slaps at the hand on her shoulder, and Lilo grins and bears it without budging an inch. "What are you doing here?"   
  
  
  
Lilo Pelekai--ever so fashionable in a sail-sized,  _haole_ -tourist Hawaiian shirt, flapping open over a black bikini top and worn cargo shorts--nods at an old, scuffed guitar leaning on the porch railing. "I was practicing on the beach."  
  
  
  
"Then you decided come here and scare the Cheez Whiz outta me? How considerate of you."  
  
  
  
" _Someone's_  in a mood." Lilo rolls her eyes, but sits down next to Myrtle, pushing heavy wet hair behind her ears and over her shoulders. Her ears are small, and don't stick out even a little, and she always smells like woodsmoke and fabric softener, grass and the ocean.  
  
  
  
It's no wonder Myrtle can't stand her.  
  
  
  
"Well,  _someone_  was minding her own business when a crazy girl snuck up on her and-- _ACK_!" A warm, fuzzy,  _damp_  weight makes itself at home on her left foot.  
  
  
  
Lilo's ugly mutt is-- _grinning_  up at Myrtle from it's perch.   
  
  
  
Only, well, dogs can't grin . . . a fact which hasn't stopped Lilo's dog from grinning at Myrtle quite often over the past ten years.  
  
  
  
Sighing, she tries, to no avail, to lever it off her foot.  
  
  
  
"You look so . . . peaceful, when you sleep." Lilo's leans forward and smiles at her dog, too-long bangs hiding her eyes. Of course it's too much to expect that she'd correct its bad behavior. "I wasn't trying to scare you, I just. . . ."  
  
  
  
"Wanted to take five years off my life?" Myrtle demands, crossing her arms. Lilo glances at her, that small smile still on her face.  
  
  
  
"Something like that," she replies. Just the sort of oddball answer everyone has come to expect from her. Myrtle sighs.  
  
  
  
"Yeah, well, not that this hasn't been fun, but don't you have a porch swing of your  _own_  to loiter on?"  
  
  
  
Lilo shrugs, swinging her legs. In the moonlight, Myrtle can clearly see sand crusted on her toes and flip-flops. She's sitting back in the swing, and her feet don't quiet reach the ground. "Not tonight, I don't. The twins are at a sleepover party and I figured that was my cue to give Nani and David some . . .  _alone time_." That last bit is said in a ridiculously sotto, wink-wink voice. "But I get to spend the night at Uncle Cobra's, so--score!"   
  
  
  
"At  _where_?" It sounds like a biker bar, or tattoo parlor. In other words,  _not_  like the kind of place anyone normal would want to spend their time.   
  
  
  
So of course Lilo's  _thrilled_  about going.   
  
  
  
"You know . . . the uncle that used to be in the CIA," she prods helpfully, when Myrtle simply stares at her. Her eyebrows are waggly commas above exclamation point eyes.  
  
  
  
"Oh.  _That_  uncle. As opposed to the uncle that's an alien scientist or the uncle that's an alien bureaucrat."  
  
  
  
"Yeah." Lilo and her ugly dog nod at the same time, then snort at the same time. It's kind of creepy. "And yes, I know you think I'm crazy."  
  
  
  
Myrtle sighs again, wishing she had the energy or inclination to throw a tantrum--anything that'd drive the headache-waiting-to-happen off her porch, never to return. But neither of them are six anymore, and besides . . . Myrtle's always been curious about the depths of Lilo's delusional insanity. What better time to indulge said curiosity?  
  
  
  
"If you know then why do you say things like that?" Myrtle watches Lilo's profile closely for tics or giveaways that she's about to fly into a fit of screaming and / or biting. But aside from her lips pursing briefly, Lilo's face is mildly impassive. Which is unusual for a girl who normally wears every emotion out loud and in living color. "I mean, if you can tell the difference between what  _you_  say and what  _sane people_  say, why don't you just--not say crazy things?"  
  
  
  
"Just cuz something sounds crazy, doesn't mean it's not true." Another there-and-gone glance with no laughter in it, just desperate intensity. "Everyone thought Galileo sounded crazy."   
  
  
  
"But you're not Galileo." Lilo's consistently mediocre grades in math and science bear out this observation.  
  
  
  
"When you think about it . . . neither was Galileo, till everyone sat up and took notice."  
  
  
  
"That's not--that doesn't make any sense at all!"   
  
  
  
Lilo's face scrunches ponderously. "Well, I suppose from an Existentialist point of view, it might not--"  
  
  
  
"Argh!" Myrtle screeches. She finds it's the best way to end an unwinable argument. Read: any conversation with Lilo.  
  
  
  
And it seems to work, though Lilo is now eying her warily, biting her lip as if Myrtle's the crazy one. The dog is looking up at her with spooky, avid intelligence.  
  
  
  
"Maybe we could agree to disagree," Lilo announces with the air of someone making a grand concession. Myrtle knows that underneath this amiable peace-offering, Lilo's just as stubborn as she's always been. Perhaps as stubborn as Myrtle, even.  
  
  
  
"You're not crazy. You're just a girl that likes to say stupid, nonsense-things to annoy people! It's no wonder you don't have any friends." This isn't said meanly--at least no more meanly than Myrtle ever says anything to anyone. Yet as soon as she says it, she wants to take--well, the second half of it back.  
  
  
  
Lilo's legs are are swinging fast enough that the swing would be moving, if not for the dog arc-welding Myrtle's foot to the porch. "I have friends," she says softly.   
  
  
  
"Friends besides your dog and your alien uncles?" It's like Myrtle can't edit herself, not that she's ever had to or tried to. Not that there's any reason to start, now. Only. . . .  
  
  
  
Even a couple of years ago, Lilo might've shoved Myrtle off the swing. Or bitten her . . . or pulled her hair . . . or punched her in the face. Or all three. That she isn't doing any of those things--hasn't bothered to rise to any kind of bait for the longest time, come to think of it, makes Myrtle surprisingly sad.  
  
  
  
Lilo doesn't get worn down. Weird though she's always been, annoying though she's always been--crazy though she's always acted . . . she's the buoyant, irrepressible one. The kind of person who's the brightest light in any room she's in, even if that light's strange and mostly unacknowledged.  
  
  
  
Or so it's always seemed to Myrtle, and that's yet another reason she's never been able to stand her. And this unaccustomed stab of . . . commiseration isn't helping. Just because they're both relatively friendless doesn't mean they have anything in common, or a reason to stop disliking each other. "Look, all I meant was--if you ix-nayed alk-tay about the aliens-ay, maybe more people would want to hang around with you. You're not  _totally_  creepy and uncool, you know."  
  
  
  
"Thanks. It's always nice to hear from a fan." The smile is back up and--not running at full speed, but walking at a decent clip, and with a bounce in its step. "But lying about things and having to keep track of what I said would be . . . tiring. Don't you think?"  
  
  
  
"Meh." Myrtle doesn't make a habit of lying--why should she, when the truth can be so much more devastating--but when she does, she tends to keep it simple. "Why are we even having this discussion? Or any discussion at all? We don't like each other, remember?"   
  
  
  
"Oh, I like you, plenty," Lilo says, clearing her throat and studying her sandy toes again. Myrtle blushes and tries to cover it with a scowl even though Lilo's not looking at her.   
  
  
  
"But that doesn't mean  _I_  like  _you_ , or want you hanging around," she says, only to feel that unaccustomed stab of--something that's deeper than commiseration when Lilo shoots her an incredulous look. "C'mon, it's not like you thought we were best friends, or something, jeez. Don't look like I just kicked your stupid dog!"   
  
  
  
"If you kicked my dog, you'd probably break your foot." Lilo stands up, hops off the porch and picks up her guitar. Shoulders it and shoves her hands in her pockets. She does all this without so much as a glance at Myrtle. "See ya around, hey? C'mon, Stitch!"  
  
  
  
She starts down the driveway, but the mongrel isn't even moving. He's gazing up at Myrtle solemnly, accusingly. Or would be if dogs were capable of either solemnity or accusation.   
  
  
  
Lilo's already halfway down the drive, hair and shirt streaming out behind her.  
  
  
  
"Hey--I didn't mean that the way it sounded!" Myrtle calls anxiously, though she immediately reassures herself that she meant to say:  _Don't forget your mutt!_  
  
  
  
But suddenly, she doesn't want Lilo to walk away hurt. Angry, maybe. Anger is their weapon of choice when it comes to communication. But hurting her feelings seems kinda . . . wrong.  
  
  
  
Lilo slows, stops, but doesn't turn to face her. Doesn't call her dog, either.   
  
  
  
"You've always been really candid with me," she says, and her voice, though not deep, carries enough that she doesn't have to raise it to be heard. Not that Myrtle's waiting with baited breath to hear her reply. "I guess that kinda honesty is one of the things I like about you: I can count on you to tell me exactly what you think and how you feel--to  _not_  spare my feelings."  
  
  
  
A wry, smile takes hold of Myrtle's face. "Uh-huh. Is that just your  _lolo_ -way of saying you can count on me to be a bitch?"  
  
  
  
Lilo looks over her shoulder. Her gaze is dark and measuring even from this distance, even though Myrtle'd left her glasses in her room.  
  
  
  
"Look, I'm not sparing your feelings, okay? I'm--attempting to be more tactful." As quasi-apologies go, this one is fairly painless, and feels more like a compromise. Anyway, only a dog, and the one person who's more of a social outcast at school than Myrtle are around to witness it. "I don't hate you. And . . . it wouldn't be totally awful if you hung around for awhile. If you want," she adds. But Lilo's already drifting back toward her, that smile making a shy, slow reappearance.   
  
  
"Careful, Myrt. You might strain a muscle," she says dryly.  
  
  
  
"Funny. If I have to be tactful, so do you. And don't call me Myrt." She tries moving her leg a little to see if the dog'll budge now that its mistress is coming back. No dice. It only lolls its slobbery tongue at her . . . before said tongue goes straight up its nose.  
  
  
  
"Fine.  _Myrtle_. I like you, and you . . . don't find me totally creepy and uncool. So I guess I was wondering--"  
  
  
  
"Am I seeing things, or is your dog's tongue up his nose?" Myrtle asks, unable to drag her eyes away from this horrifying sight until Lilo's--well, not looming over her, not really, when she's all of 5'5--eyes shining behind grown-out bangs. "Th-that's the grossest thing I've ever seen."  
  
  
  
"Then I won't burden you with how infrequently he washes his hands." That grin and those eyes are too close, even though they're not really  _that_  close. "So what exactly  _is_  your problem with me? I've been trying to figure that out--figure  _you_  out since we were little, but lemme tell ya . . . I'm gettin' nowhere."  
  
  
  
"Maybe you should find a new hobby, then," Myrtle rasps. That woodsmoke-ocean scent is everywhere, parching her mouth, making her crave water despite the moderate, slightly humid weather.   
  
  
  
"Maybe I should," Lilo agrees, sitting again, just a trifle too close, eyes straight ahead. A light breeze picks up briefly, wrapping that scent around Myrtle's brain, sending a few wisps of straight dark hair to tickle Myrtle's face and arm. "But I doubt it'd prove as rewarding as this one might."   
  
  
  
"Your hair smells like seaweed."  
  
  
  
Lilo laughs, nodding like she knows something Myrtle doesn't. She's still not looking  _at_  Myrtle, but at the sky, at the rising moon.  
  
  
  
"I get it, you know: Rome wasn't built in a day. Considering that you used to tell everyone that Leprosy was eating my brain--considering that I used to beat you up and sic my dog on you, well. You allowing me to share your porch is . . . progress," she says.  
  
  
  
 _Or insanity,_  Myrtle thinks, but doesn't say. She edges further away, not feeling at all put out when Lilo proves distracted enough to neither follow, nor call her on it.  
  
  
  
"And it may not happen tonight, it may not happen this summer . . . but I sense that beneath your sarcastic exterior, deep down, you want the whole nine. Us to be best-forever-friends. We'll have hijinks, our kids'll go to the same schools, and when we're old we'll share a room in the same nursing home."  
  
  
  
Lilo looks down just as Myrtle's looking away. Up at the moon. Anywhere but at the girl sitting next to her. She has no answer to this. At least none that wouldn't send Lilo marching off again in a cloud of wounded pride, or leave Myrtle looking as desperately lonely as she sometimes feels.  
  
  
  
"I never know how to take the things you say: can't tell if you mean them, or if you're laughing at me, or what," she says--means to huff it as indignantly as possible. But it comes out strangely frustrated and vulnerable. " _Are_  you laughing at me?"  
  
  
  
"No, I'm not." Lilo scoots a little closer, till Myrtle can feel the brush of still-damp clothing along her arm. "All I meant was that I like you a lot. And I think that if you let yourself, you might like me, too."  
  
  
  
Almost against her will, Myrtle finds herself looking at Lilo. Really  _looking_  at her for the first time in a long while.  
  
  
  
She's not lovely, persay--not like her sister, Nani. Her eyes are a little too large and round for her face. Coupled with that radioactive-bright smile, there's something endearingly cartoonish and wholesome about her.  
  
  
  
 _Some_ thing about Lilo's face, about  _her_  that's always made it hard for Myrtle's eyes to stray for long. Made Lilo immediately the center of attention in any room Myrtle happened to be in. Makes her skin tingle and prickle. . . .  
  
  
  
"Myrtle?" Lilo asks, leaning closer. Or maybe it's Myrtle who's leaning closer, though it would be farther if she hadn't run out of swing to scoot on.  
  
  
  
Her scrambling brain quickly reminds her that, despite the lack of scooting room, she can still turn away. And she does so quickly, clearing her throat. Pretending she doesn't feel the soft gust of air on her cheek before Lilo reluctantly creates a little more space between them.  
  
  
  
"You remember that time, when we were still in  _halau_. When you punched me in the face, then bit me?"  
  
  
  
It just popped out--from left field, it seems. Myrtle hadn't realized she was going to say it till it was said, but now that she  _has_  said it, she feels some of that old, familiar resentment clearing away the calm certainty of Lilo's eyes, the brush of her sleeve and hair (which doesn't smell like seaweed at all . . . if only it did).  
  
  
  
After a few moments of silent disbelief so large, Myrtle doesn't have to look to see it, Lilo sighs. "You mean that time when we were  _seven_?"  
  
  
  
Myrtle crosses her arms and stares holes into the night. Into the  _kukui_  nut tree her mother planted at the edge of the driveway. So she's fairly surprised when Lilo snatches her left arm and begins pawing at it.  
  
  
  
"Hey! Get  _off_  me!"  
  
  
  
"There isn't even a scar!" Lilo declares, doing some glaring of her own. "That means I didn't even break skin, you big baby! See?"  
  
  
  
She runs smug, calloused fingertips down and up Myrtle's arm, not breaking eye contact to do so.   
  
  
  
"I--I--" Myrtle stammers,  _so_  intelligently. And to add to her complete mortification, wherever Lilo's fingers brush leave goosebumps and tingling in their wake.  
  
  
  
 _This is not happening. Not now, please, not now--_  
  
  
  
She yanks her arm away. Cradles it against her as if Lilo had threatened to bite it again, and narrows her eyes till Lilo's just a brown and black blur. "It's  _my_  arm! Just because  _you_  can't see the scar doesn't mean I don't have one!"  
  
  
  
Which is exactly the kind of weird, stupid, nonsense-thing  _Lilo_  might say. So it's no surprise, of course, when the reply is:  
  
  
  
"I guess maybe you're right." Lilo shakes her head again, looking vaguely miserable, somewhat defeated. "I had-- _have_  a short fuse. But that's no excuse to hit you. Or bite you."  
  
  
  
"Or. Pull. My. Hair," Myrtle adds icily, tossing said hair off her shoulders. A repressed smile tugs at the corner of Lilo's wide mouth.  
  
  
  
"Or . . . or pull your hair. I really am sorry."  
  
  
  
 _Apology_ not _accepted_ , is on the tip of Myrtle's tongue, sharp and barbed and poetic. But before she can let loose with it, strong hands are taking her arm again--still determined, but also gentle. Those same calloused fingertips brush her skin so lightly it makes every hair on Myrtle's body stand up.   
  
  
  
"I'm sorry." Cool, soft lips press the apology into the restless, overheated skin of her arm twice, lingeringly. And in the general area Myrtle recalls having been bit, too.  
  
  
  
But all too soon, Lilo's straightening up, her face neither amused nor smug, but settled into something questioning and hopeful.  
  
  
  
"Better?" she asks quietly, as if she really wants to know the answer, as if something important hinges on the knowing.  
  
  
  
"I--" Myrtle can feel the blood rushing from everywhere else to her face, turning it a blotchy, unflattering red that no doubt clashes with her carroty hair. It happens whenever she's angry or embarassed or confused. She's not sure which of those three Lilo brings out in her more. "You  _really_  are one eggroll shy of a pu pu platter, you know?"  
  
  
  
Which earns her that quirky, knowing smile, and the hand holding Myrtle's--when, exactly, had  _that_  happened?--squeezes gently before letting go. "Yeah, I know."  
  
  
  
"My house isn't even between the beach and town. Don't think I haven't realized that. You went out of your way to come here."  
  
  
  
"You're right. It's not. I did." That smile transforms into the unrepentant grin that reminds Myrtle of the mongrel whose weight is killing off all feeling below her left ankle.   
  
  
  
"So why did you come here?" Myrtle demands, suddenly impatient and at the end of her rope. This, at least, hasn't changed.  
  
  
  
Lilo bites her lip. "Stitch's been telling me I should man-up and bury the hatchet with you. I guess I finally got sick of hearing about it." On Myrtle's foot, the dog makes another strange snorting sound. Probably just as a response to its name.  
  
  
  
"You . . . get advice from your dog? Advice that you  _follow_?" Myrtle rolls her eyes when Lilo nods. "If only I were surprised."  
  
  
  
"Oh, Stitch gives all sorts of practical advice: 'buy low, sell high' . . . 'boil that before you drink it' . . . 'bury the hatchet and ask her to come with you to Sherri Shimata's sweet sixteen luau this Saturday' . . . 'just because you can pilot an escape-pod doesn't mean you should skip Driver's Ed again this year. . . ." Lilo sneaks a glance at Myrtle--who's certain she's heard wrong--from the corner of her eye. "He's turning into a real buttinsky."  
  
  
  
"Waitaminute, you-- _you_  got invited to a party thrown by the most popular girl in our school?  _You_?"   
  
  
  
Lilo sighs. "It's a good thing I don't offend easily. And actually, I got my first paying gig at a party thrown by the most popular girl in our school." Unmistakable pride in her voice. "Anyway, I'm allowed to bring a friend, and hang out when I'm not playing. I . . . thought you might like to come with me if, you know, you aren't busy."  
  
  
  
Myrtle tilts her head as if in consideration. Lets the silence draw out just long enough for Lilo to fidget--for some of that beach-bum, Jimmy Buffett-cool to crack. "Fine. But you have to promise me one thing or no dice."  
  
  
  
"Consider it promised!" Wide-eyed surprise that underlines the fact that Lilo's not nearly as sure of herself as she pretends to be. At least not where this whole . . . psuedo-friendship-thing is concerned. Which makes two of them.  
  
  
  
"You have to promise not to bite me, and keep your dog from mauling me." Myrtle shoots the dog a forbidding look that's largely ignored.  
  
  
  
"Deal-ski!" Lilo grins again, and there's enough grin for ten people, really. (Myrtle wonders what it means that something as silly and inconsequential as Lilo's grin is actually worth sitting through medlies of Elvis's Greatest Hits.   
  
  
  
Then decides it just means she's been bored out of her mind for an entire summer and is in desperate need of a party.)  
  
  
  
But after nearly a minute of staring at each other, Lilo's grin gets a little . . . goofy. And Myrtle could swear there's a blush somewhere under that complexion. Something red enough to match her own.  
  
  
  
"Um. I should, uh, go," Lilo says suddenly, her voice briefly cracking up into--whatever register is higher than soprano. Her eyes seem to say something completely different, though. "Uncle Cobra . . . he worries--"  
  
  
  
"Yeah. I, um, don't want you to get into trouble or something." Apparently they both turn into bibbling idiots after ten o'clock. "I mean--get off my porch before I change my mind about the stupid luau."  
  
  
  
Lilo smiles that knowing smile again and bumps Myrtle's shoulder with her own before standing up and stretching: a short, sturdy girl in baggy, worn clothes that have probably never been in fashion--at least not the way Lilo wears them.  
  
  
  
"You're gonna wear something . . . nicer to the party, right?" Just because they're being all tactful, and attempting to be friends, doesn't mean Myrtle wants to look homeless-by-association.  
  
  
  
"It's a luau, not tea at Buckingham Palace." Lilo laughs when Myrtle huffs. "Relax. I clean up nice, you'll see."  
  
  
  
"Sure you do." Exaggerated, dripping sarcasm, the kind that Lilo knows not to take to heart, and she doesn't. She hops off the porch, picks up her battered old guitar and looks back, as if she wants to say something else.   
  
  
  
Nervous sweat prickles and gathers on the small of Myrtle's back as eternal moments tick by.  
  
  
  
"So I'll pick you up at seven?" Lilo finally says, all easy confidence again. Myrtle nods once, managing to keep her own brand of cool, even when Lilo's eyes light up in a way that makes her flush hot and cold. "Cool. See ya then."  
  
  
  
She pulls the guitar strap over her head, not noticing when it tangles in her heavy, damp hair. One small, shy wave, then her sandy legs take her quickly down the drive. Halfway down she pauses, turns back, and waves again. Myrtle's returned the wave before she can stop herself, and she can see that wide white grin even from this distance, even without her glasses, even in the not-so dark.  
  
  
  
" _Vamanos_ , Stitch!"   
  
  
  
It's only then that Myrtle notices the dog is still parked on her now numb foot. And is once again gazing up at her, no canine grin in sight. It's eyes are dark and curious--like Lilo's--and for a moment, it stops being just shy of absolutely hideous and is almost . . . cute.   
  
  
  
If something that looks like the mutated love-child of a koala and roadkill could be called cute.  
  
  
  
In Myrtle's current mood, it could be.  
  
  
  
"Okay, maybe you're not  _the_  ugliest thing I have ever saw," she admits wrinkling her nose. The dog makes a dry chuffing sound that's eerily like a laughter, and clearly grins at her.   
  
  
  
Licks her calf, leaving behind thick, sticky--and oh, dear God,  _green_?!--slobber.   
  
  
  
"Augh!" Myrtle starts trying to shove it off her foot, but it's no use, the damn dog weighs a ton for all he's a runt. "Get off--go to Lilo before I scream for Animal Control!"   
  
  
  
Another chuffing laugh and the dog takes his sweet little ol' time sauntering off her porch, bat ears swiveling around in that creepy way that they do.   
  
  
  
"C' _mon_ , slowpoke, or Jumba and Pleakley'll eat all the poi again!" Lilo calls from the end of the drive, and that gets the little mongrel running. When it catches up, Lilo hitches the guitar up a bit and ambles out into the road.   
  
  
  
Though she can't make out the words, Myrtle can hear her talking to that dog every step of the way. And it almost sounds as if the dog's  _answering her_ \--  
  
  
 _Well, that's just silly,_  Myrtle thinks as the well-matched pair dwindle into the distance.  _Dogs can't talk. Not even mutant ones._  
  
  
  
She settles back into the swing, shaking her leg to get some feeling back into it . . . ignoring the viscous slobber pooling around her left foot.   
  
  
  
The spot on her arm that Lilo kissed still feels slightly warmer than the rest of her. Long after the tingling, and the pins and needles have faded, she's still staring up at the moon, and smiling.  
  
  
  
At least until she realizes her left sandal is missing.  
  



	2. An Exercise in Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrtle Edmonds is nothing, if not magnanimous. No spoilers for the movie or series.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: "Not I," says the beetle.  
> Notes: Set ten-ish years after the movies.

  
“ _What_ \--?” Myrtle squawks as Lilo leans in. “--the hell are you doing?”  
  
Farther down the beach, Sherri Shimata's sweet sixteen luau is finally starting to wind down.   
  
Much closer to hand, Lilo's old, worn guitar is a cool weight against both their calves, the sand a still-warm blanket under bare toes.  
  
Lilo's eyes are too close and too dark and too soft—too sweet-sour with the taste of lightly-spiked fruit punch, but kinda salty from the air and oh. . . .  
  
 _Oh_.  
  
“I'm, uh . . . sorry?” Lilo's eyes are shining and the tips of their noses brush before she pulls away to gage Myrtle's reaction. The distant firelight lends a certain drama to her round, plain face and the pretty, curving lips that are still oh-so-slightly puckered--  
  
\--she doesn't seem sorry at all.  
  
Nothing earth-shattering, that kiss: not long enough or powerful enough to make Myrtle's toes curl, or her body quicken. Nevertheless, she catches herself leaning in close. . . .  
  
“You're the worst liar ever,” she blurts out, jumping up on unsteady legs, her skin flushed and damp. “How many cups of punch have you had?”  
  
Lilo grabs her guitar and stands just as unsteadily, blinking and frowning. “Mighta lost count,” she admits, and Myrtle's stomach clenches into cold knots, until: “Enough to make me brave, anyway . . . been wanting to kiss you since freshman year.”  
  
Shocked speechless, Myrtle can only gape at this strange  _lolo_ -girl, who--of all the people on Earth--had the audacity to be her first.   
  
She recovers quickly. “Well,  _yeah_. That doesn't mean you're forgiven, but . . . you may walk me home. You'd just better keep your lips to yourself.”  
  
Grinning, Lilo shoulders her guitar and crosses her heart.  
  
Halfway back to town, when she tentatively takes Myrtle's hand--Myrtle lets her keep it.


	3. Where Angels Fear to Tread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For challenge #157, "Fool(ish)".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I'm not the owner.  
> Notes: Set ten years after the movie.

“So, Lilo . . . funny running into  _you_  here . . . at this place you've been working all summer . . . and for the past three summers. . . .”  
  
Myrtle sighs and catches a glimpse of herself in the spotless window. It's not even noon yet, and her hair is already starting to frizz horribly. Lilo's, however, is shining and smooth like a river, pulled back in an efficient, waist-length ponytail.  
  
(And no, Myrtle's fingers do  _not_  itch to run through it.)  
  
She takes a deep breath.  
  
“Hi, Lilo! I was just passing by and thought I'd stop in, and say 'aloha' . . . because I'm a complete loser with no social skills, who can't even ask a crazy girl out on a damn date. . . .”  
  
Inside Mrs. Hasegawa's shop, said crazy girl--wearing a tie-dyed, eye-watering wife beater, knee-length cutoff jeans and sneakers, for a change--disappears down one of the cramped aisles, a dim-witted looking customer on her heels and nattering away.  
  
“Hey, Lilo, about that kiss last Saturday. . . .”  
  
The kiss Myrtle hasn't been able to stop thinking about for forty-eight hours. The kiss that stars in her dreams at night, and leaves her sweaty and yearning in the morning, her nightshirt rucked up from tossing and turning.  
  
“ _About_  that kiss . . . even though I didn't act like it, I'm pretty sure it was the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I'd like, more than anything, to do it again. Possibly in a movie theater--or maybe even on the beach again. Or both, I'm not picky. . . .”  
  
Yeah, right. Myrtle's nothing  _but_  picky. But if it meant standing in an abandoned grain silo, she'd do it just to kiss Lilo again. To maybe feel those calloused fingers on her arms again, or her face and neck. Or sliding up under her shirt, teasing ticklish skin along the way. . . .  
  
It's a few minutes before Myrtle emerges from this alarming and unhelpful scenario, just as Lilo emerges from the aisle. Her smile is gone and a determined look takes its place as she walks to the counter--no past it, and towards the door.  
  
Which is right next to the window Myrtle just happens to be standing in front of--in a patch of sunlight, no less.  
  
The door swings open and Lilo leans out, brow furrowed and eyebrows raised in concern.   
  
“Listen, Myrtle. . . .” she says hesitantly, and Myrtle looks away, feeling mortified, foolish and just awful.  
  
“Yes?” she demands, crossing her arms and glaring narrowly. Her face feels splotchy-red with embarrassment, which inclines her to be snappish--  
  
“You've, uh, been standing out here talking to yourself for twenty-three minutes. Do you maybe wanna come inside and . . . talk to  _me_?”  
  
\--at least until Lilo smiles. Not that big, toothy, rather frightening grin, but the hopeful, shy smile she'd worn on the walk back to Myrtle's house.  
  
That kiss  _still_  hangs in the space between them like a question mark. . . .  
  
On general principle, Myrtle doesn't return the smile, but she  _does_  step inside.


	4. The Thirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like, forever ago, Escritoireazul asked if Myrtle would muster up the courage to ask Lilo out, or make her do all the work . . . this one's for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Set ten years after the movie, and within hours of "Where Angels Fear To Tread."

"So. . . ." Myrtle straightens some of the haphazardly scattered impulse-buys on the counter. Next to her, Lilo rings up a small multitude of seed packets so quickly and competently there's poetry in it. But then, there's always been poetry in the way Lilo moves--even back when they were seven, and in  _halau_  together.  
  
  
Myrtle realizes she's staring--some people really are made for sunlight . . . are favored by it, and showcased in it--and clears her throat. Marshals thoughts that initially refuse to be marshaled. "Do you work here five days a week?"  
  
  
"Nah." That scary-big grin flashes out as Lilo hands back change, receipt, and seeds with a bright  _mahalo-plenty! Come again!_ Waits till the door tinkles shut behind Mr. Marko before turning musing, measuring eyes on Myrtle, who promptly finds a display of clay pots in the shape of shamrocks intriguing . . . but still tacky.   
  
  
"I'm here today of course, and Thursdays and Saturdays. Alternate Sundays, too," Lilo says finally. Myrtle can still feel that gaze on her, warm and gentle like a ray of sunshine. "Why? Want me to put in a good word for you with Mrs. H for the other days?  You'll have to fight Kaimana Jones for 'em."  
  
  
Picturing herself doing manual labor--or fighting Kaimana Jones, for that matter--makes Myrtle's nose scrunch up a little. "Fight.  Hah, no. Um.  Tomorrow, Kim's Klassics in Waimea is showing  _Earth Vs. The Spider_. . . ." it's not a subtle segue. Even said as casually as she's able there's a crack and quaver in her voice, and she can't quite add:  _we could go see it together, if you want._  
  
  
But Lilo just laughs a little, seeming not to notice Myrtle's sudden and unusual tongue-tied state.  
  
  
"Man,  _Earth Vs. The Spider_  . . . you know, when I was little, Stitch used to make me watch that with him almost daily. Then he discovered  _The Giant Spider Invasion_ \--which I think he only liked because he had an ooky, platonic man-crush on Reb Brown--or possibly on the giant spiders--I really don't wanna know which. . . ." she shudders melodramatically, still smiling, inviting Myrtle to share the joke.  
  
  
Far from sharing it, Myrtle, crosses her arms and turns away, leaning back against the counter. It's been hard enough coming this far, making herself this vulnerable. The last thing she needs right now are reminders of why Lilo--who is either completely insane, or has the most persistent and inappropriate sense of humor Myrtle's ever heard of--is the least suitable person to set one's amorous sights on.  
  
  
Because it's rather too late to do anything about that, isn't it? Myrtle's always been a realist, and certainly pragmatic enough to understand the stubbornness of, if not the workings of her own heart. She was a goner the moment Lilo kissed her.    
  
  
Even if that could somehow be changed. . . .  
  
  
"Hey--is something wrong?"  Lilo's fingers, warm and slightly grubby, brush her arm fleetingly.  Myrtle's skin flushes in probably visible waves just from that simple touch, and ooh! Look! Kitschy clay flowerpots in the shape of shamrocks!   
  
  
Whatever.  It gives Myrtle the mental space needed to forge ahead.  "Look, I've gotta go to Waimea to run some errands, and I was thinking . . . you might like to come with me. Since we're--you know. Friends, now."  A quick glance shows Lilo's straight, dark eyebrows hoisted as if to say  _friends???_ \--but Myrtle crosses her arms and squares her shoulders. "Anyway. It's a long drive, and if all you're gonna do is yak about your gay mutant dog's taste in guys--"  
  
  
"Yes."  
  
  
Those fingertips brush her arm again slowly, callouses raising goosebumps . . . Myrtle scowls harder, but doesn't pull away. She can all but taste the acknowledgment of what happened between them Saturday--what's  _been_  happening between them since . . . forever, it feels like.   "Yes, all you're gonna talk about is your dog?"   
  
  
Because--let's face it--this is  _Lilo_ , who never does what's expected of her.   
  
  
" _Yes_ , I'd love to go to Waimea with you. I'll even leave Stitch at home," Lilo says mildly, not at all like she's making a grand concession, though Myrtle knows girl and mutt are usually inseparable. Lilo'd even somehow gotten the school district to let the mutt accompany her to classes for the better parts of elementary and middle school.  
  
  
So they're rarely apart for any reason, yet--  
  
  
Myrtle clears her throat and closes her eyes for a moment because it's really hard to think, for some reason.  "Um--good. I'll, uh, pick you up around nine?" Her voice is far too husky and breathless.  
  
  
"It's a date, then," Lilo replies, with just enough inflection--and dizzying directness of gaze--that Myrtle is sure beyond a doubt that it  _is_ , in fact, just that.  Add increasing proximity to that challenging stare, and she's far too flustered to find an appropriately snarky response.   
  
  
That fluster is deepened exponentially, when Lilo's gaze ticks to Myrtle's mouth for a moment, lingering before ticking up again, and she hitches in a shaky, deep breath, her wide eyes getting even wider.  "Myrtle, can I. . .?"   
  
  
"Depends.  Are you sober?"  
  
  
Lilo rolls her eyes but leans closer (she smells like earth and plants and fabric softener. Like nothing special, but that Myrtle could happily drown in that scent). "Sober as the judge that'll toss me into County for misdemeanor assault if you don't say yes."  
  
  
"Classy, Lilo. Really cla--"  
  
  
Any other rejoinder she might've come out with is very nearly captured by a kiss. But the bell over the door jingles merrily and they both freeze, then Myrtle puts a few inches between them. Lilo shakes her head once, slightly, and closes the gap again, till they're nearly touching.   
  
  
Myrtle eyes go saucer-wide, but she can't look away . . . Lilo won't let her. Not even when the customer reaches the counter.  
  
  
" _Oe_ , got slugs in my cabbage patch . . . you guys sell repellen' any kine?"  
  
  
"Sure ting, brah," Lilo says, neither looking nor moving further away from Myrtle. "Ortho GetaBug, third aisle, second shelf on the left, can't miss it."  
  
  
"Tanks!" Footsteps clump off, presumably to the third aisle.  
  
  
"I live to serve." Lilo's  _still_  looking, her tongue unconsciously darting out to wet her lips, and Myrtle wonders just how long she's been staring at  _those_.   
  
  
 _Well, they're really nice lips,_  Myrtle thinks, sounding defensive even to herself.  
  
  
"I wanna kiss you so bad," Lilo says softly, with a forthright, naked sort of intensity that Myrtle used to find off-putting and a bit creepy, but now . . . focused this way, it's more than a little flattering. And exciting. "I haven't thought about anything else since Saturday."  
  
  
"Me neither," Myrtle blurts--very nearly gushes, caught totally off-guard as she is. And she'd be mortified, but that the admission gets her a relieved smile in return, and Lilo's hand linking comfortably with hers.  
  
  
They stand there like that, smiling, moving no closer, but no further apart . . . until Myrtle finally laughs a little, surrendering to the off-balance feeling she's beginning to suspect is her default setting when it comes to Lilo. "So what are you waiting for,  _lolo_ -girl, an act of Congress?"  
  
  
"My thirty, actually." There're a couple of suspect crashes from the third aisle--and distracted, swear-laced pidgin that makes Lilo's smile turn crooked and rueful. She squeezes Myrtle's hand gently. "I just don't wanna have to stop kissing you to ring up Farmer John's slug repellent."  
  
  
"Oh." Myrtle laughs again--only it's more of a giggle . . . which'd be mortifying if Lilo even noticed that giggling was uncool--and raises their latticed hands; they look like a lame Benetton ad. "Yeah. That'd be, um. Kind of a buzz-kill, I guess."  
  
  
The crooked smile gets crookeder, more wry. "Honestly? It'd take a lot more than slug repellent to kill my buzz. But once I start kissing you, it's gonna be really, really hard to stop.”  
  
  
“Is that so?”  
  
  
“Totally. The most  _so_  thing for miles in any direction.” Lilo closes her eyes for a moment, then leans a few millimeters closer. “I wanna kiss you till we can't breathe, and our legs turn to jello.”  
  
  
Well. Too late on that second one. At least for Myrtle. “Th-then we should definitely wait till your thirty.”  
  
  
"Definitely, yeah . . . hey, can I tell you something?" Lilo tilts her head up and Myrtle instinctively angles hers down a bit.  
  
  
"Go for it," she murmurs, her eyes fluttering shut, but not before she realizes Lilo's aren't, and that she probably kisses with her eyes open, and will therefore see the silly kiss-face Myrtle  _knows_  she's making, and--  
  
  
"You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."   
  
  
And before Myrtle can process  _that_ \--only well-meaning relatives and adults have ever complimented Myrtle's looks, and they don't count--they're kissing.  
  
  
Well. Not really.  
  
  
Lilo's lips--soft, warm, hesitant--have barely pressed hers when three, half-gallon containers of slug repellent thunk down on the counter.  
  
  
This time they both look at the customer, who's wide-eyed and watching them like they're pay-per-view. "You, uh, take personal checks?"  
  
  
In a silence that's broken only by the last, pathetic gasp of a  _moment_ , Lilo nods once, cool as a cucumber. "With plenty i.d., we do, brah." She's far more composed than Myrtle, who's blushing  _again_  . . . trying for a scowl but certain she merely looks seasick.  
  
  
The customer's gaze ticks between them, then he clears his throat and busies himself with his wallet and checkbook.  
  
  
Lilo reluctantly lets go of Myrtle's hand to laser-eye the guy's I.d., and ring up the slug repellent. Myrtle, for her part, starts rummaging on the shelf under the counter. Comes up with a large, green Sharpie.  
  
  
When the door swings shut behind the customer, Myrtle's a half-second behind him, turning the somewhat antiquated lock--there's only the one; that Mrs. Hasegawa's never been burgled is a minor miracle--on the creaky door and snatching the  ** _Come On In!_** sign out of the display window.  
  
  
The flip side of the sign says  ** _Sorry We Missed You . . . Back In Minutes_**. Myrtle prints a blocky, bold  **30**  into the blank space, then drops it back in front of the junky heart- and star-shaped pots. Tosses the green Sharpie underhanded at Lilo, who catches it easily.  
  
  
That big, manic smile has been put away for the moment, and replaced by another look entirely. One that makes dark eyes glow darker . . . makes Myrtle feel hot and cold all at once.  
  
  
“Tick-tock,  _lolo_ -girl,” she sing-songs with a feigned snarkiness that evaporates completely as Lilo drops the Sharpie, picks up the gauntlet and steps around the counter.


	5. A Big Enough Lever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the road to Waimea. For prompt #159, “drive”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer:   
> Notes: Set ten years after the movies.

  
They've barely gotten on the highway and Myrtle is already regretting letting Lilo drive.  
  
  
“You're almost seventeen, and relatively free of developmental disabilities.” Myrtle's tone implies that she expects to be proven wrong about  _that_  at any second. “Why are you so bad at this?”  
  
  
Lilo's glaring daggers at the steering wheel, on which she has a white-knuckled death-grip. In the wrong places, no less. “Because your car is ridiculous.”  
  
  
“My car is  _not_  ridiculous,  _you're_ \--what did I say about spaghetti-arms?! Ten and two! Ten and two! And stop strangling the wheel!”   
  
  
Lilo obeys with gritted teeth and Myrtle tries to wrestle her admittedly martial manner into something more patient. “You need to focus, or you'll be a sloppy, dangerous driver. If you even manage to get your license, that is.”  
  
  
“You sound just like Nani.”  
  
  
“You mean Nani, who has her drivers license, like I have mine?”  
  
  
If Lilo grits her teeth any more the enamel will crack.  
  
  
For a few silent minutes, the mood in the PT Cruiser is tense: they're both frustrated, and Myrtle's pretty sure alienating Lilo twenty minutes into their second date is not the way to ensure a third.  
  
  
“Maybe--” she searches for something, anything, but she's never had to be conciliatory before. “Maybe if you eased up on the gas and avoided third gear altogether--”  
  
  
“Yeah, and maybe I'm just not the kinda girl who should drive stick,” Lilo snaps.  
  
  
They're nearly a silent quarter-mile down the highway before Myrtle can no longer fight off the giggles. In a few seconds, she's laughing so hard her face is burning and red.  
  
  
“What?” Lilo demands tightly, and a quick glance at the rearview mirror shows the tense confusion on her face suddenly being replaced by realization, and dignified annoyance. “Sheesh, you know what I meant, Myrtle.”  
  
  
And Myrtle's off to the races again, taking her glasses off before they  _fall off_.   
  
  
Lilo jerkily pulls the Cruiser over on the road shoulder and puts it into park.  
  
  
Turns the ignition off.  
  
  
Myrtle's laughter tapers, dries up completely as Lilo--who probably  _is_  lolo enough to walk all the way back to town--unbuckles her seatbelt. “Okay, I didn't mean to laugh, but that was pretty funny--um, hi,” she adds, because instead of getting out, Lilo's gotten  _much_  closer.  
  
  
“Hiya, Myrtle,” she whispers, and the distance between closes them until Lilo's black eyes are actually dark brown; till their lips touch tentatively, then more certainly.  
  
  
“So.” Lilo's voice is uneven in a way that Myrtle likes almost as much as she liked the kiss. “Third gear . . . bad?”  
  
  
“Very.” Kiss. “And drive slower.”  
  
  
“I'll go.” Kiss. “As slow.” Kiss. “As you want.” Another kiss--this one with less talking and more tongue.  
  
  
Reeling pleasantly, Myrtle eventually comes up for oxygen and nods toward the highway. “Good. About thirty-five or forty'll do, then. And remember: ten and two.”   
  
  
The rest of the trip to Waimea is uneventful, and Lilo's driving improves noticeably.


	6. Drag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very special occasion. For the slashthedrabble prompt 'drag'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I'm not the one with the copyrights.  
> Notes: Set at least fifteen years after the movie.

“Oh . . . oh, my God.”  
  
Lilo glares, crossing her arms over her chest and scowling thunderously, the very picture of determined, bullheaded discomfort.  
  
“You look so  _good_! I knew it!” Myrtle enthuses. “Totally femme-tastic!”  
  
The scowl deepens impossibly before turning into an unconsciously childish moue. “I hate you.” She raises a hand to rub her face and Myrtle smacks it away, turning them both to face Nani's full length mirror.   
  
The sight therein makes one of them grin and the other groan.   
  
“God--I look like a transvestite hooker, and I  _feel_  like I'm in fucking drag!”  
  
“You look lovely.”  
  
Lilo snorts and brushes a trailer of hair--most of which is piled on her head in an artfully haphazard upsweep--away from her face, which Myrtle has painstakingly made up. The rich, dark colors are sparely applied, but boldly used to accent eyes, cheekbones and mouth.  
  
And the dress. . . .  
  
“Okay, this thing shows way too much boob,” Lilo announces, yanking on the deceptively thin straps, then downwards on the back of the dress.  
  
Myrtle, knowing Lilo, and her measurements very well, has chosen a dress that's not only fitted, but far too well-made for Lilo to 'accidentally' destroy it.   
  
“You think Nani's got a cardigan I could borrow--?”  
  
“ _No_.”  
  
“You know I'd much rather see  _you_  in this dress. Or out of it.” Lilo rakes a wistful glance over Myrtle's reflection then her own before sighing. “Why can't I just wear that pantsuit I wore to graduation?”  
  
“You mean the one you also wore to Mrs. Hasegawa's funeral three years ago?” Lilo nods so eagerly Myrtle truly despairs of ever civilizing her. But only for a moment. If there's one thing Edmondses are not, it's quitters. “This isn't a funeral,  _lolo_ -girl, it's an engagement party.”  
  
“ _Our_  engagement party,” Lilo corrects, turning away from the mirror to pull Myrtle into her arms for a brief, careful peck on the lips. “We can wear whatever we want, show up as late as we want. . . .”  
  
For someone who's not used to having feminine wiles to wield, Lilo's certainly grasped the concept, shrugging one spaghetti strap off her shoulder, her eyebrows--plucked, and really, it's amazing they got through  _that_  ordeal still engaged--raised in challenge.  
  
“No! We're in Nani and David's bedroom!”  
  
“So? We've got the place to ourselves, and . . . since  _you're_  wearing the pants tonight--” strong hands with blunt, incarnadined nails slide possessively down the back of Myrtle's elegant Donna Karan slacks. “I'll even let you top.”  
  
Myrtle tilts her chin and narrows her eyes.   
  
Lilo flashes her manic, frightener of grin . . . and now there's lipstick smeared all over her teeth.  
  
Unfazed, Myrtle stoically lays down the law.   
  
“Not in here, you savage, and if you mess up your makeup or mine, you're sleeping on the couch till our honeymoon.”


End file.
